How Do You Say I'm Afraid In Inuktitut?
by Lassiturtle
Summary: Fraser learns that acting and thinking mechanically could get him killed. A surreal journey with his father takes him to terrifying and strange new truths as he fights to stay alive in a mystifying and dangerous version of the Borderland. Ray Kowalski, affected by Fraser's mortality, does his own soul-searching as he waits on the other side. T for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

"Go. Find…" Benton Fraser enunciated with a grimace. His head strained off the cement, one bloody hand around his wolf's ruff. Diefenbaker spun around with a yip and ran around the corner of the alley before the Mountie could finish his command.

"…Ray." Fraser nodded, before slowly laying his head back down to the ground with a grunt. Both hands crawled toward the knife that was buried in his abdomen. He could feel blood beginning to pool beneath him, rivulets flowing heavily now underneath his thick woolen uniform. This wasn't the first time he'd been stabbed. Nor was this the first time he'd found himself staring up at the sky as he felt himself begin to go into the initial stages of shock from a grievous injury. It was arguable, though, whether this was more or less painful than the last.

When he'd been shot on the railway platform, his thoughts had been focused upon Victoria leaving him behind on that train. On how he should have been with her on that train. As he lay bleeding in her icy wake that night, the world around him seemed to shake itself like a snow globe, taking him back to a time when he'd lain huddled with her in a terrible storm, his body covering hers for a day and a night and day in an attempt to keep her alive even as he felt his own consciousness and life ebb into the cold.

Fraser closed his eyes, ashamed of distancing himself from his past experiences at a time like this. Even in his memory, he still carried with him only a rote description of the events which had transpired between Victoria and himself the first, and perhaps only, time he'd really fallen in love; however illogical, however dangerous or transgressive, and however truly heartbreaking it would one day prove to be. Those days spent freezing and huddled as one entity… dying, yet so very alive together, had re-hardened—frozen—to a mechanical "day and a night and a day" as soon as he'd recovered from the gunshot wound. Reiterated still under the guise of poetry or storytelling, or perhaps simply a sort of learned Native oral tradition to his heart until now, he realized, as an icy stab of pain grabbed him fully. Now he felt—and this was foreign to his personality, which only served to pull at him from invisible and incomprehensible forces—completely alone.

Tonight, the displaced policeman stared at the stars, stifling a moan as pain tried to escape his throat. There was no suffering associated with the loss of a woman to confound his injury, but Fraser found it nearly as intense. He attempted to secure his shaking hands around the blade to stem the warm flow of blood, but the weapon had been thrust to its hilt. His breath was coming in pants, which he could see hang for a moment in icy white clouds, suspended and overlapping in the winter night. He was having difficulty slowing his heart rate and felt sweat beading along his face as his body began to shudder in intervals. So he blinked the moisture back and focused on the stars.

He couldn't see many constellations from his position in the claustrophobic alleyway, but Orion's belt was visible, partially obscured by steam from a nearby building. Fraser tried to imagine the asterism of the Greek hunter's belt morphing into his own Sam Browne. He thought of how hard it would be to reach those stars every other night to polish the belt to his satisfaction, moving his fingers down slightly to meet the stickiness that was beginning to soak through the leather of which he took great care. Head still firmly planted on the asphalt, and with a swallow of dread; he came to the conclusion that he was all too quickly losing pride in his individual uniform, quite a lot of blood, and possibly whatever slips of sanity he liked to think he had banked.

Perhaps it would be more helpful to focus on individual stars, rather. Fraser tried to ignore the sound of a nearby scuffle. He could do nothing to help and could hardly shout for assistance in his condition, so he let the sounds muffle themselves. He let the stars blur. And Benton Fraser finally let himself lose control as he waited to pass out or for Dief to bring help—whichever came first. He trusted Ray to apprehend the man who'd attacked Fraser's uniform, Canada, the Queen, and—well—his person; and he relented. For the moment, there was nothing more to do but wait.

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><p>Breathing heavily, Ray Kowalski finally caught up with the man he and Fraser had been chasing. He was really just a kid. Nineteen years old. Ray had been separated from the other two due to the irritating habit his partner had of leaping onto rooftops during foot pursuits and soaring from impossible heights onto moving objects during a chase. Ray generally left his cape at home, so he preferred to stay on the ground while his Canadian buddy flushed the bad guys down- or around-ward when possible. It was a system that usually served them well, so he had few qualms about it unless he got sucked into Fraser's bizarre methods. Attempting parkour looked like fun in movies, but it lost its glamour somewhere between the cat leap and West Randolph Street. Tonight, though, Ray had managed to stay on the street, so he was content.<p>

As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Ray employed his own unique manner of leaping from behind a dumpster and tackled the suspect to the pavement. Still breathing hard in the cold, his chest heaving, the detective yanked the young man up and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him. He was taller than Ray, well-muscled under his loose-fitting clothes, and dewy droplets of sweat stood out on an olive complexion. His bony hands shook nervously under the ragged cuffs of his navy blue sweatshirt. A rough patting-down revealed no weapons. He'd probably ditched whatever he had during the chase. Surprised that Fraser was nowhere in tow, Ray began to Mirandize the squirming subject now in his custody. Where was the Mountie?

Maybe Fraser was off licking something. Probably on the trail of the treasure of the Sierra What's-it-called. Or perhaps a sewer rat had been burgled and Fraser was returning its prize scrap of moldy ham. Maybe a moose had wandered a tad South and Fraser was loaning it a compass. Ooh, Jimmy Hoffa…

"…If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you…" he continued, still theorizing in his head why he was the one who'd eventually caught up with their subject. At that moment, Diefenbaker rounded the corner. That was when Ray knew something was wrong. The wolf without Fraser in this situation meant something was queer.

"Hang on," he said, mid-spiel.

"Don't you gotta say the whole thing, cop?"

"I said shut up!" Fraser's wolf licked Ray in the face.

"Dief, don't do that. Hey." Then Ray felt around his scruff. He yanked on his glasses and saw, dark under the incandescent streetlights, what could not be anything but blood. "Aw, shit. Fraser!" he yelled. "Fraser!" His glasses fell down and hung loose, dangling by one ear.

"That the Mountie guy?" the kid asked, a cocky grin pulled tight over his jutting jaw.

"What did you do?" Ray grabbed him. "What the hell did you do?" He shoved the kid against the dumpster, and the pair of glasses fell to the ground with a crack. "Where is he?"

"I got the right to remain silent."

"You got the right to remain cuffed to this here post, you bastard." Ray pulled out the extra pair of cuffs he'd decided were a good idea to have on him since Fraser was woefully under-equipped and had a habit of attracting trouble, and attached the man to a street sign. "You move, you die."

Ray must have dropped his guard, because his threat only encouraged a hard kick to his gut. He fell back a few steps, curling in on himself, cursing. Vision narrowing, he nearly dry heaved and caught himself with one hand on the dumpster. He had to get to Fraser.

Dief must've had the same plan. Ray felt wolf breath in his ear and looked up as the agitated animal started licking his neck and making frantic noises.

"I'm coming, Dief. Show me where he is, buddy." Ray straightened and started to run, his stomach clenching from the kick and nervous energy. "Hey, slow down a little. Dief! Diefenbaker!" He saw a tail disappear around a brick building as he caught himself on a cold, rough wall; head down, gasping for breath. He shoved off, following where he last saw a flash of fur, and skidded around the corner. Nothing. Not a sound.

"Fraser!" He waited for a moment then walked forward. A furry white head poked itself from an alley and disappeared. Ray ran. He nearly tripped over Fraser when he reached the dimly-lit passageway. That uniform was good for something. It was like a bright red don't-step-on-me sign. Ray dropped hard to his knees on the cold cement.

"Frase… what h—" Then he looked at Fraser's hands weakly trembling around the handle of a knife. Even against the red uniform, he saw the blood. Ray froze for a moment and looked at Fraser's face. His throat was working up and down, and his mouth opened like he wanted to say something, then shut. His usually confident eyes were distant and glanced back and forth slightly at the sky.

"Jesus, Frase… hold on. You hear me? I gotcha." Ray fumbled at his belt, automatically grabbing for a radio to call in a 10-00—forgetting again that the only radio he had access to in the 27th was in the car. Cursing, he jammed shaky fingers into his pocket, retrieved his phone, and dialed.

"Yeah. This is Detective Vecchio. Chicago PD. 27thPrecinct. Officer down." His voice cracked. "Need an ambulance immediately." He dropped the phone to the ground by accident, but left it there, returning his attention to Fraser who was now staring at him, eyes wide and glazed.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, Fraser. Ambulance is on its way. Stay with me."

Fraser groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Ray could see his partner's breath hitching as bloody hands cradled the knife.

"What do you need? What can I do?" Maybe Fraser knew some trick from his Great Aunt seventeen-times-removed that Ray could do to keep him alive or help him hurt less while the ambulance took its merry time getting here…

"Qiuliqtunga…" Fraser said softy. Ray squinted and scratched his neck.

"What was that? Go lick tuna? I don't think that's gonna help, Fraser. I know it hurts. You're not, you know, making much sense right now… Just…" Ray swallowed. "Just hang on…" He felt a tug on the elbow of his black flight jacket and looked down. Diefenbaker was pulling on it with a whine. Ray's brain was in shock seeing Fraser like this. He hadn't even thought to cover him with more layers. The detective quickly removed his coat and covered Fraser's chest with it, careful not to touch or jostle the knife.

Fraser nodded, almost undetectably in appreciation. Diefenbaker was lying next to him, and had begun to worm his head under one of Fraser's arms.

"Keep talking to me. What was that word you said? The 'tuna' word?" Ray placed a hand on his buddy's chest. "Ah, try to imagine yourself…" What would Fraser imagine to feel better? Be Canadian, Ray… "Imagine you've been trudging through the tundra for days tracking a guy who beats baby sea otters…" Fraser's eyebrows rose slightly at that. "Yeah, and, uh… you've been wading through a frozen river, and you're very, very cold. But, now. Now. You've caught the man, saved all the baby otters, and you're all dry, sitting in your long johns, a flannel shirt, and a sweater in front of a roaring fire in a little cozy cabin. You're drinking that disgusting bark tea you like so much, and you feel as toasty as a bug in a rug, right? Oh, and all the otters're snuggling with ya." Ray leaned in closer.

Fraser made a noise. It probably started out as a chuckle, but it reminded Ray of the early days of rebuilding his Goat when the engine just wouldn't start. It would make terrible choking noises. His dad would laugh and say it was part of the process, but Ray would feel guilty that he might've hurt her… just for a second. He'd laugh and yank the key out.

Ray could feel his friend shivering violently underneath his hand. Fraser had one hand resting now on Diefenbaker, fingers twitching and digging into the fur sporadically. The stain still spread across Fraser's uniform, reflecting dark and wet in the moonlight and a flickering streetlight somewhere behind them. Feeling useless, Ray moved one hand to meet Fraser's, which was still embracing the knife, shocked at the amount of slippery, warm blood coating it.

"It means… 'I am cold,' Ray." Fraser gasped, his voiced straining. He looked intently into his partner's confused eyes. "Qiuliqtunga…" he paused, letting out another grunt, "is Inuktitut… for 'I am cold.'"

"Oh." Ray sat, staring back. He vaguely recalled Fraser telling him Dief could lip-read an Inuit language easier than English. Maybe he was talking to the wolf earlier.

"Ray."

"Yeah, Frase…"

"I..." Fraser touched his tongue to his lower lip, thoughtfully. "I can't see the stars…" A bead of sweat slid slowly down the side of his face and disappeared into his hair. Ray looked up. He could see the stars. It was a clear night. No clouds or snow.

"Fraser…"

"Ray, the sky is too big to…" Fraser swallowed. "To fit into an alley," he whispered. Ray bit his lip. Not only was his buddy hurt, but he was homesick.

"Hey, the ambulance is coming. I hear it. You're going to be fine." Dief started howling along with the keening of the sirens.

"Thank you, Ray." His eyes slid shut and his hands relaxed.

Ray didn't feel the EMT release Fraser's fingers from his grasp or hear anything but the pounding of his own heart until sounds seemed to focus into the size of a pin then explode around him.

"BP seventy over forty-two. Pulse-ox seventy-six. Pulse is weak, thready, and irregular. Seems to have lost about three units. Patient may be too unstable to transport."

Ray heard something about respirations before his own felt as though they wouldn't move past his teeth. He wanted to scream, but it felt like his own lungs had frozen solid and wouldn't pull a breath in or out. Fraser had been talking to him a couple of minutes ago. Ray made a fist and slammed it into the brick building they had been huddled nearest. He pounded it until his hand was unrecognizable, and then began kicking it until he fell. No attempt was made to pull himself off the dirty street still shining with his partner's blood as hot tears of rage ran across his face. He felt strong arms pull him up and take him to the waiting ambulances. Apparently two of them had shown up along with a black-and-white. Why hadn't someone come faster?

A needle jabbed him in the rear below his hip.

"—just to help you calm down, Sir…"

"—doing the best we can, Sir…"

"Detective! It's Detective..."

"Sorry, Detective. We're doing the best we can, Detective."

"…don't need a sedative, God damn it!" Ray shook hands off of him.

"…just relax and let it work. Let us look at your hand."

"…name?"

Collapsed in resignation, there was nothing to do but comply. "Ko… Vecchio. Ray Vecchio. Just help Constable Fraser… Just help Fraser." Ray felt like he should say something about the Consulate. Let the EMTs know they should notify Inspector Thatcher. Tell them he's a Mountie… Since Fraser was unconscious, should Ray tell them about how Constable Benton Fraser "first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father, and for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, has remained, attached as liaison officer with the—"

"…losing him!"

"No…"

He felt his eyes shut and the voices flow into one, icily, sucking him under, muffling his senses until he had only one thought… So this is what an ice floe was like… He'd have to tell Fraser he'd experienced one when he awoke.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I remain unaffiliated with any media franchise. I do not own _due South_, its plot, or its established characters. The original plot or characters are, indeed, mine, all mine. If I inherit ownership of _due South_ and its respective Mounties and so forth, I shall inform you. And you should probably leave me, in return, a nice comment to tell me to seek medical assistance. Thank you!

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><p>Just as Benton Fraser felt the frigid pall of unconsciousness squeeze across his struggling form; at the very moment he began to relent to the disconcerting silence that had overtaken the panicked voices all around; and during what he thought to be a cruel, excruciating ache of finality that, even in his present state, scared the hell out of him; he heard a voice: clear and concise.<p>

"Son, open your eyes."

_Dad?_

"I realize you're in pain, but you'll have to trust me." The voice waited. "Just… open your eyes, Benton."

If Benton's dead father was here, there were several options as to his own physical or mental state. He preferred not ruminate on them at this juncture, so slowly, obligingly, the younger man opened his eyes, unsure of what to expect. Certainly not the amount of breathing room his father had elected to afford him.

This was new. Instead of the two inches and distress with which Bob Fraser was so fond of surprising him, Benton squinted to find his dad a good one-and-a-half feet away, his right hand resting reassuringly on his son's leg. The gesture felt warm. Benton couldn't remember the last time his father had showed him reassurance or love physically. Even his grandparents, though warm and loving in their own way, didn't make a habit of hugs or, really, any physical shows of affection. On a normal day he'd question this or feel rather awkward about it, but he was so cold. Warmth felt nice.

_Dad's hand was ON his leg! TOUCHING his leg_…

Benton began to breathe even harder, his gut twisting, still in tremendous pain. This could only mean…

"Calm down, son. You'll hyperventilate." Bob Fraser removed his hand, and watched curiously as it was scrutinized as though it were a flesh-eating bacterium.

"But, Dad…" Benton swallowed hard, moving his eyes from his dad's seemingly solid hand to his almost-sympathetic face. "You… You're—"

"Still dead."

"You touched me." Each word now came as a low whisper, almost grated out.

"You looked cold," Bob answered once more with only the hint of a raised eyebrow.

"I… I don't feel dead, Dad. It hurts." The younger Fraser felt his voice break he looked down at his tunic. Blood still seeped from around the knife. Suddenly he gasped in pain and looked back up at his father helplessly. He felt embarrassed. Vulnerable. Weak.

"You're not." _Not helpless, vulnerable, weak? Was his dad psychic now?_ Benton didn't know why that thought irritated him. It was temporary, though. He was tired.

"I'm not what, Dad?" He closed his eyes again, exhaustion and dizziness overtaking him (he hoped.)

"Dead! You're not dead, son. Look around you."

"I'm tired, Dad. I hurt, and I'm tired, and I'm fairly sure I'm at least mostly dead. I don't feel like looking around." If he could sigh without the knife inside of him radiating pain all the way down to his toes, this would have been an opportune moment, if not for himself, but to get his point across. At least his dad was _all-the-way-dead_. If he wanted to conduct an environmental survey of the premises and report back, he was welcome. Benton wanted the pain to go away first. Quite honestly, even with whatever integrity was at stake during his final minutes, he didn't feel like opening his eyes.

"Son, you are more stubborn than a mother moose. Do I have to physically move you?"

That worked. He knew his dad could touch him. He'd felt it. His eyes flew open. And sure enough, there was Robert Fraser, his eyes roughly three inches from Benton–who lurched in surprise.

"Don't… don't _do_ that, Dad!" he panted, then rubbed his eyebrow with his left thumb. "Are you _trying_ to scare me to death while I'm dying?" He stared upward at his father's blank expression and thought he saw a twinkle. _Hmm_.

"Oh." He squinted. "_Are_ you?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't know. I don't often have the opportunity to try new things in the Borderland."

Benton's eyes grew a little wider. "So…" He finally glanced to his sides. This wasn't the alley. If he was physically with his father, he could only presume he was indeed in the Borderlands with his father, yet this… most certainly wasn't his closet at the Consulate either. And he hadn't died yet, he hoped, because he was still hurting quite badly. Staring at the view to his left, he cleared his throat.

"Um, Dad… not to be overly thick or logical, but…"

"Yes, you're in the Borderland."

"I figured. How?"

"No idea, son." Oh, helpful already.

"But I'm not dead yet, and you're most certainly—"

"Oh, very dead," Bob Fraser supplied eagerly.

"Your present state is—"

"Much better than yours, son. And I'm dead. I was shot. I have no blood pressure. Speaking of which, I think yours is dropping…"

Benton felt dizzy and there was a white flash for a moment. He thought he saw fluorescent lights above him. Blurry faces.

_"He's waking up."_

_"Stay with us, Benton. Can you hear me?" He didn't know the voice talking to him. He tried to concentrate. They were in a vehicle. The pain was worse. His thoughts were growing increasingly stilted. Difficult to breathe…_

_"Benton, keep your eyes open. We're taking you to a hospital." He tried to say something. Perhaps he managed to moan. So cold… The vehicle hit a bump in the road and the pain worsened until he could no longer stay conscious…_

"You tried, Benton."

He looked up, expecting to be in an ambulance, but saw his father once again.

"Tried? I tried? I just _lay_ there and did nothing, Dad!" Benton's hands clenched into fists as he moved his tongue across his lower lip in frustration.

"That kid really got you, son. You're doing the best you can." Bob looked down earnestly for a moment, likely taking in his son's horrendous appearance.

"I wish I could do something. I feel…" Benton trailed off. He couldn't finish his sentence. He felt ashamed.

"You feel helpless, yes." His dad waved a hand dismissively in the air, then continued before any objections could be made. "Only one thing to be done about that. Get up."

"But, I…" _How? He still had a knife in him, he was bleeding, he hurt like hell, and he was pretty sure he was in shock. Even in the Borderlands—Borderland?—that would be inconvenient._ Benton looked down at the knife and back up at his dad with a look of bewilderment, then asked simply, "Do you have a spare coat? Mine seems to be soaked through."

There was a pause, both men staring at one another, before Bob answered.

"Sorry, son. These are your Borderlands. I don't know how stable they are, but everything here is what you make of it."

"Ah." Benton looked around. "That would explain the, ah…"

"Squalor?" Bob suggested.

"I was going to suggest 'lack of Northwest Territories,' but that term would suffice." He really couldn't place a finger on the quiddity of the setting. He must be assimilating to his new (well, not so new anymore…) environs if his version of the Borderlands looked so, so… Well, his father wasn't wrong. Everything around them was lacking, well… Just lacking. He'd much prefer to be in the Yukon. Some snow would at least explain this biting cold that was wracking his body with constant painful shivers. Even the sky was under-decorated: no sun of which to speak; overcast without distinguishable clouds. It was daytime, so there were no stars and the moon wasn't visible. The horizon was flat. There were no mountains, and only the occasional dying tree littered the filthy asphalt landscape. In the distance, Benton could make out some dilapidated tenements standing out against what seemed to be a nearly endless vacant parking lot on or in which he was lying at the moment. A cheeseburger wrapper tossed and skirted itself past him. It seemed to have more of a destination in mind than he had.

"Need a hand?" Sheathed in an arctic glove, strong fingers reached down and grasped his forearm.

"That would be appreciated." With little choice, and some hesitation, Benton Fraser embraced his father's hand, gritted his teeth against the pain in his gut, and began to haul himself upward.

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><p>Ray woke up halfway to the hospital in the ambulance. He guessed he'd drifted off when the sedatives kicked in. Maybe when the adrenaline wore off... Of course the almighty EMTs would get all pissy when he tried to sit up. He tried again anyway.<p>

"You need to stay lying down while the vehicle is in motion, Detective," a female voice nearly yelled in his ear as he wiggled under the gurney restraints.

Ray tried to bring his hand to his eyes to rub them, but pretty much smacked himself in the face with a wrapped ball of uncoordinatedness. Oh, right. He remembered messing up his hand pretty effectively now that it was throbbing like hell.

Lowering his arm halfway, he glared up at the woman who had her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were intense. Intense, huh? Yeah? Well he could do intense. Ray stared at her. Intensely. She didn't break, so he intensified it up a notch. Nothing.

Whatever.

"How's Fraser?" He relaxed his head and put his arm all the way down, suddenly all knotted up inside picturing Fraser on the asphalt. Images flew through his head like a really stupid comic book movie. Like when they'd show a montage of spinning newspapers with stupid music, only without sound. Where was his sound? _Shit._ Had he heard them say they were "losing him?" Ray's heart started doing that pounding thing again. He was kind of glad those sedatives didn't work all that well. His heart _should_ be pounding. God, he felt sick. No one answered immediately, or maybe his heartbeat was just too loud in his ears, so he looked around frantically and asked again.

"You need to calm down!"

"Don't tell me what I need! I need to know how my partner is!" Ray fought against the stupid little belts on the gurney again. They weren't for, like, restraining criminals. Just sort of seat belts so passengers didn't slide onto the floor. He started to try to undo the Velcro with his not-totally-screwed-up hand. He felt trapped under the blanket. Claustrophobic.

"You have to leave those on, sir." The guy said it this time. Ray wanted point out that the_ EMT_ wasn't wearing a belt. _He_ wasn't tied on a stupid bed.

So, looking at the man seated on the other side of him, Ray tried to stop shaking as he spoke. Tried to look calm since the guy was also seated next to a box full of drugs that could easily be manhandled into the I.V. that had been stuck into Ray's arm while he was dozing. He tried not to look scared to death that his friend might actually have been stabbed to death. Ray was a cop. He could pull that off.

But the guy _had_ to go and look sympathetic on him. _Real_ macho. Ray couldn't help it. He couldn't break the stare into the guy's eyes. Ray knew if he moved his eyes at all, tears would come spilling out. He wanted to tell the EMTs he'd kick them both in the head if either of them so much as spoke, because that would probably open the floodgates too. And threatening them would lead to more sedation. Probably heavier. So he just stared. He didn't speak at all. He shut his mouth. And the guy stared back. Ray could feel tears welling up, pricking at his tear ducts, so he opened his eyes wider, challenging them. Challenging those stupid-ass tears to go the hell away. No one had answered his Fraser question, so either they'd seen him die and didn't want to make him more upset, or they didn't know.

The EMT broke eye-contact so Ray stared at the guy's ear instead. Where his eyes used to be.

To hell with it. He blinked and tears slid down his face as he shook, expressionless.

"You need this?"

"No," he said quietly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thank you so much for the kind reviews for my last chapter! I now have the story mostly planned out. Thanks for waiting. I appreciate your further reviews and comments! Let me know what you're thinking. Warning: I did say I'm experimenting with format, so POV styles may change just when you get comfortable... This is on purpose. TYK for reviews, comments, PMs, thoughts, fantasies, musical numbers... :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own nor am I affiliated with the creators of _due South_. I borrowed some lines of the poem, "The Windhover," by Gerard Manley Hopkins, which is the poem Fraser recites at the end of "Victoria's Secret: Part 2," which I think it is safe to infer is the poem Victoria repeated to him during the infamous blizzard at Fortitude Pass. The most dashing and covet-worthy characters are not mine. I am adamantly against ownership of Mounties, as they really must do their jobs. As must Detectives. As for ghosts, I believe they should be free range and never ingested. The plot is mine. I keep it buried on my property. There is a proper treasure map, which is not carved into a dead man's chest. "X" never, ever marks the spot, so good luck finding the plot. All will be revealed. I am not associated with any media franchise to my knowledge, and have never knowingly sung a sea chantey with Paul Gross. No copyright infringement is intended. Please see Author's Note at the end of this chapter. TYK!

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><p>Benton Fraser stood blankly. Bleakly. He'd give his left High Brown to hallucinate a manhole cover in his present perception of the world. As it was, he'd already lost his Stetson to what he could only assume was reality, so it was saying really a lot that he'd sacrifice one of his boots. Everything was so far away. He was accustomed to finding shortcuts.<p>

"We should start walking, Benton. Your Borderlands are giving me a headache. Air needs trees to breathe, you know. Should have thought of that, you know, before you went about creating..." Bob Fraser gestured at nothing in particular, "this."

"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, Dad, b—" He gawked at the older man, who stared at him, expressionless. "You have a _headache_? Ha. You have a…"

"Well, no, not really. I was making a point." Bob frowned as Benton began to laugh harder, his eyes shut tight, wheezing for air.

"You… headache…" he gasped in a high-pitched laugh, doubled over.

"It wasn't that amusing, Benton."

"No…" came out the weak reply as Benton grabbed onto his father's tunic and caught his breath before continuing. When he looked up, he had tears running down his cheeks. "I," he pointed to himself drunkenly with a bloody hand, maintaining eye contact, "have a knife… in me, and you–. You," He raised his voice in disbelief, "have a headache?"

"Oh, I do see your point."

"Do you? _Do you, Dad?_" Bob put his arm around his son's back and pulled him back to a standing position.

"I do, son, but that crazed psychopathic look in your eyes is unseemly of a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

Benton fought another wave of agonizing pain that nearly floored him. He'd given up seemliness awhile back. He assumed since the pain was so intense and that there was a continuous gnawing ache that felt as if someone was still twisting the knife, he'd been denied pain killers and had yet to be anaesthetized. Or he was in hell or purgatory and his father was there to keep up an illusion. Of course, that would mean that Victoria would appear soon, so there was that toward which to look forward.

And, oh, he did long for it. Perhaps that was the gnawing. The ineffable ache that seemed to radiate through his bones.

Shivering as invisible snowflakes seemed to penetrate his skin, Benton looked toward the tenements in the far distance. It was with some comfort he came to the conclusion that they were in the same place. Of course, he had nothing definitive by which to qualify this judgment. Someone had borrowed his compass, and it wasn't as if sextants grew on trees; and he didn't quite trust that the things posing as tall, herbaceous plants were made of wood at all, dead though they were.

"Well, no sense in standing around, then, right, Dad?"

"True enough, son. You might startle the natives." A rat scurried past them toward the horizon. "And you have an appointment."

"With whom?"

"Heaven knows, son. But I think you'd better be on time to this one. It's your duty."

"You just make things up as you go along, don't you?" Benton's teeth chattered as he spoke. The action jarred him. How long had it been? Was time different here than in real life?

"It's worked for me so far."

"What has?"

Bob looked at his son with layers of concern no longer hidden, like strata chipped away each time he saw Benton grimace. Even watching him become this distractible was breaking Bob's façade. He had to help find a way out. But which way was out? Things were rarely physical in the Borderland. And this was one wacky Borderland.

"What, Dad?" Benton licked his lip, shutting his eyes briefly, sweat now trickling down his face.

"Never mind. We'd better get a move on. You don't look well." Bob expeditiously, but carefully wiped the sweat from his son's forehead with the soft fur lining of his arctic glove, which was buttoned up toward his wrist. Benton simply nodded in acknowledgement, and began to stumble forward, gaining momentum with each step.

They traveled in silence; Bob staring toward the grimy looking apartments, their agreed-upon destination; and Benton gazing blearily about one foot in front of his boots at the gritty oil-stained asphalt. The younger Fraser grunted as he stumbled and his father caught him every so often, or Benton would stop for a moment grabbing onto his stomach around the hilt which still taunted him as the blade felt as though, at intervals, someone still stabbed then twisted and tore at him until he was forced to stop fighting.

The gnawing suddenly overwhelmed everything else, and Benton grabbed at what he could as he fell. His fist latched onto the sleeve of Bob's tunic and his father instinctively caught him as he dropped.

"What is it, Benton? Talk to me, son."

Tendrils polished like the most beautifully flintnapped obsidian wrapped themselves around his body like smoke. Dark tendrils like Victoria's hair… The loveliest hair he'd ever seen. He took in a shaky breath and held the smoke in his lungs, letting it burn inside him before exhaling. She'd even smelled of smoke, of candles. Of every candle he owned all lit at once. Wax dripping down his fingers as he lit them fifty, maybe one hundred at once, each sting of melted paraffin igniting a passion in him he'd suppressed since he'd first met her. And then the sharp throb of black soot branding each of his fingertips as he snuffed the candles out one at a time, each little sizzle burning a little deeper until tears began to drip freely down his face from the smoke. Perhaps from Victoria snuffing out what he believed to his life force. Alone, he had pulled a soot-stained hand over his eyes and wept. In his halfway-lit apartment, he'd stood at his window and wept, his sobbing erect form backlit by the anxiously dancing light of untended wicks and cheap candles having been burned for too many hours. He was now haunted by snow, dark hair, melted candle wax, and smoke. The rest of the memories were obnoxiously painful. These were poignant, he supposed.

And now the smoky tendrils of her hair stung at his nose and icy snowflakes sliced at his flesh like the smoky obsidian he knew they were as well. He wanted to open his eyes, to see her. His Victoria. His ice floe. His poison. The only woman whom he'd ever loved. A violent, tumultuous, thieving murderess. She surely would have turned him into a different person had he successfully left with her on the train that night. Perhaps become her partner in crime as well as love…

_Then come with me! _

_Come with me!_

_You're gonna regret it if you don't._

He had regretted it… But he thought he'd moved on. But here, now, he'd let her find him. _Wanted _her to find him. He opened his eyes.

She was more beautiful than he remembered. The soft scent of lilacs and vanilla twisted themselves into a ribbon of incense with the now light ringlets of smoke encircling her pale, bare shoulders and glowing curls of hair. Her eyes were bright with life, with energy. She placed a warm finger over his mouth, which startled him. Still, after all these years, he thought of her fingers as the frozen cold fingers he'd put in his mouth as he tried to warm her at Fortitude Pass—she his prisoner, he her captor, each trying to stay alive through the blizzard. To keep one another alive. His first and only love.

_I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-draw Falcon in his riding..._

After she served her time, she'd come back and used him. And her fingers had been cold again at the railroad platform when she'd begged him to come with her. As she'd reached out and touched his hand, smiling. Excited. About to embark on an adventure. One that would probably kill his soul, if not him. He'd lost hold of her in seconds as he was shot. Her face was cold then, too. Was it disappointment?

Not Victoria. Cold because she'd brought the snow back. Others may not have seen the snow, but she'd brought that snow back to him. Brought him back to the snow. Made him remember that poem she recited to him all night to keep him alive while he kept her warm.

_Of the rolling underneath him steady air, and striding high there how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing..._

And now she had warm hands. He fought the urge to open his mouth and taste her fingers once again. To feel her life, to feel that energy. So he stared at her mouth. She smiled and spoke...

"Come with me, Ben…" Sotto voce. So, so soft.

Victoria was lying on top of him, pinning him to the ground with that horrible ache, sharp snowflakes cutting into his skin; smoke, though sweet and floral, began to make him cough painfully. It was too much. She was too much. He tried to reach out to her. Perhaps if she gave him a little space…

…

"Victoria, I… I'm sorry." Benton tried to move, but he was getting colder and colder. "Victoria, please move." He had to push her away again.

Her image flickered.

…_shéer plód makes plough down sillion shine…_

"I'm in hell…" Benton coughed and tried to move his head, but it was getting harder and harder to move.

_And blue-bleak embers, ah my dear…_

"You sent me there. It's only fair. I need you, Ben."

"You never needed me, Victoria…" A tear slid down his face. It was true. He needed her, but she only used him out of convenience and lust.

_Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold vermilion._

"Son, will you get a grip!" Bob's face replaced Victoria's—which was disconcerting—with another flicker and a filmy haze Benton had to blink to clear.

"I should be with her."

"Oh, son…" Bob looked down at his son sadly. He'd been at the railway platform that night. He knew Benton didn't know his father was there. The boy had just been shot in the back and was in shock, but Bob had appeared immediately and placed a reassuring hand on his son's chest. He'd been there and he'd heard Benton say those exact words when Victoria had left with the train. When he was lying there, bleeding, and Bob could do nothing. _I should be with her. _

"Dad…" On the ground, the younger Mountie struggled in pain. "Dad, I should be with her. What have I done?"

"You used your head, son. You used your head. That woman nearly got you killed, and I think she could probably kill you here too." Bob shook his head and repeated the gesture of which his boy had seemed not to have been aware on the platform that night. He placed his hand on Benton's chest and looked at him knowingly.

"Understood." There was a long pause before he spoke again. "Dad, am I in hell?"

"You know what your grandmother always said?"

"Wash behind your ears?"

"Don't you have a filter, son?" Bob looked at his son in bemusement. "She also said 'If you're in hell, keep going.'"

Benton coughed. "That." he grabbed his father's hand and gestured that he'd appreciate some help sitting up. "Was Winston. Churchill," he grunted.

Bob Fraser smiled.

Benton looked down. The knife was gone. In its place was even more blood. The sharp pain was easing, and he was starting to feel more shaky and confused.

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here…" Benton stared in front of them as he was helped to his feet.

"Your grandmother said that?" Bob knew when someone was pulling the reindeer pelt over his eyes, but he humored his son because he was starting to look extremely pale all of a sudden.

"No…" Benton trailed off, his eyes darting all around the place. "Shakespeare. And I think 'here' meant 'here.'"


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, but that's not important. What is important is that I first came to this story on the trail of the plot tribbles who were killing my brain. For reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, I've remained attached as an officeless lazy writer with a parade of ocelots. Or something. Please enter Ray's head at your own risk.

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><p>"Name and date of birth?"<p>

"Detective Raymond Vecchio. September 23rd, 1960." He used Vecchio's birthday. It was a god damned miracle he remembered it. "Where's my partner?" He glared. You know, for expediency.

"One thing at a time, Detective." Jesus, how many one-things-at-a-time did Ray have to go through until he got a straight answer? He was still on the gurney from the ambulance for chrissake. He'd finally arrived in a trauma room, from the looks of it. Giant lights loomed over the center of a large room, dwarfing a sterile white bed. A fairly comfortable looking reclining chair for visitors sat at the other side of the bed, another smaller plastic chair had been carelessly tossed next to it, and wide glass doors opened directly to the nurses' station, the curtains pulled open.

"'This a trauma room?" Ray knew he needed to keep himself talking or his guilt would overtake him, and that would lead to nothing but much more deeply bent hostility, which he was trying very hard to avoid at… at this juncture. He swallowed dryly as Fraser's often-used phrase popped into his head.

"Yep. This is a trauma room." The young woman checking the hospital bracelet that had been secured around his wrist in the ambulance smiled and looked up at him for the first time. "You think you can scootch over for me onto the bed from there? Careful with your hand and wrist." She pulled the blanket underneath him as he wiggled over on top of it, glaring. _Scootching. _

"Now, can you tell me where my partner is?" Ray casually dislodged his badge so it fell in front of her as he proceeded to awkwardly transplant his body without the use of his dominant hand, and gave her a wolfish snarl of a grin, which disappeared quickly into a slack stare. He'd begun to shake again, so he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering like a five year-old playing cops-and-robbers in the street in the middle of winter.

She couldn't have been older than twenty-two, the girl he was staring at. The girl—Rachel? He squinted at her name tag. He was trying to hide his fear from a kid just a couple years out of high school.

Ray felt hollow; the outside of his body aching and spasming with cold, clenched muscles, fear, and skin worn raw. His neck throbbed where he'd strained and overstretched his tendons, trying to see what was happening in the ambulance. He'd skinned and bruised his knees as they'd smashed into the pavement, though he hadn't noticed at the time, when he found Fraser. Ray's skin was sticky with the drying, browning blood that hadn't yet been wiped from his hands. The blood which had been so slick and warm as Fraser grasped his hand in pain as he lay waiting for the sirens to approach. Blood that had suddenly turned so cold, shivers wracking Ray's body before he began using the brick wall as a punching bag. He'd slipped in a puddle of the same dark liquid after that kick to the wall sent shock waves though his ankle, knee, and hip, then landed on his back.

Lord, he hurt. He wished he hurt more. After seeing Fraser like that, he didn't know what to do but hurt. A shiver let itself out with a pathetic whimper.

"I'm Rachel. I'm just a nurse's aide, Raymond."

"Ray." He closed his eyes, then opened them again, hoping she'd have disappeared. No luck, schmuck.

"Ray. What's your partner's name? I'll have someone check for you." She patted his leg and gave him a saccharin smile. Maybe it was a real smile. Ray couldn't tell a mood ring from a hockey puck right now. "And your nurse will be in shortly to look at that arm and order some X-Rays. Anything else I can do for you? If you need anything, here's your call button." She wrapped the bulky thing around his bed rail, which she hefted up, followed by the other side. "This yellow button turns on the TV."

"Yeah." He squinted at her name tag again. He couldn't concentrate. "Rachel. You see a guy in a bright red uniform who looks like a doorman or magician or maybe just, I dunno, in real bad shape—blood matching his uniform… like, a lot of blood… that's Fraser. I need to know why he's not in the trauma room and I am. If I find out someone drove him here slower than me, I got a badge and a gun." He paused. What the hell. "And all of Canada and possibly Her Majesty, the Queen of England will come kick people in the head. Got it?"

What's-her-name appeared dubious. "Detective, we have three trauma rooms. Your gun has been placed in a locker for safety and storage. You were heavily sedated and came in by ambulance. We're bringing in the other ambulance in two minutes. I assume that is your partner. Someone will update you on his status as soon as possible." She walked through the sliding glass door muttering about Canada and the Queen and looking through Ray's chart, no doubt to see what drugs he'd been given.

Two minutes meant he was alive. Ray unclenched his jaw slightly and allowed his teeth to click together in a room-strobing chatter, since no one was watching him lose his composure. He could afford himself a minute of exhaustion. He sunk back in the bed, and let out a sob as he examined his bare hand, then realized with a pang of horror that it would likely never be bare. There was blood deep under his fingernails, sticking between his fingers. He wanted to scream for someone to get it off, but all he could do was lie there quaking, feeling all the hurts in his body, waiting for someone to fix Fraser, because he hadn't been able to protect his partner. Wishing Fraser could come quote that damn Shakespeare line squirreling around the back of his brain. _Out, out damned blood._ What-the-hell-ever. Same thing. He actually _wanted_ to be corrected. It didn't usually bother Ray when he improvised, but today he wanted Fraser to tell him the right words. Tell him which play. So Ray lay there compulsively thinking of what Fraser would say, the detective's teeth chattering to quotations he didn't remember to a play he was pretty sure involved blood.

And waiting for someone to come give him X-Rays. Heh. X-Rays.

He choked off a laugh. That's what Stella used to call the blue flip-down covers for his glasses. He didn't like wearing his glasses. They were kinda nerdy; got in the way. But she never minded. He guessed he really never cared much what he looked like to other people, but the glasses were a hassle, and he was sometimes teased about them when he was a kid. But Stella… Good old Stella. She used to love him no matter what. And when he came home with the funky blue shades that flipped down over his glasses, she'd laughed. She'd called them his X-Rays. He'd jumped right on board with that and claimed that they gave him x-ray vision. Told her he could see exactly which undergarments she was wearing underneath her business suit, and she'd laughed again, turning to leave the room, shaking her head in that Stella way. But he was a detective. He'd noticed what was in the wash and what was missing from her drawer. He'd gotten it right on the first try. The name stuck around after that, and he felt like Superman in those blue shades. Even after he and Stella had broken up. Even after her usually scathing remarks toward him, he liked his X-Rays…

By the time the nurse walked in, Ray had dirty, probably dried blood-streaked lines of tears rolling down his face into his flattening blond hair. No glasses tonight. Usually he just assumed he'd left them on his desk at work or shoved them in his coat pocket, but he distinctly remembered them shattering tonight by the dumpster. It was one of those memories—perfectly preserved sounds and the feeling of the glasses hanging off one ear before they dropped—so clear now, but he he'd hardly noticed when they fell to the ground in crunching shards. Shards sharp like a knife…

It occurred to Ray now that perhaps he should be worried about who'd eventually detained their suspect, but he just couldn't think straight. Not even in fruit loops. He'd given an officer the kid's location. Ray was sure he'd been picked up. Re-Mirandized. Hopefully kicked repeatedly. Maybe by the Queen. His lip twitched upward.

The nurse looked down at Ray, holding his chart in one hand, and tugging on his bracelet with the other to check his identification.

"Name and date of birth?"

Ray laughed. He was still crying silently. "Stanley Kowalski."

The older, balding male nurse chuckled. "Ha! A funny guy! Love me some Brando! Try again, Streetcar."

"Raymond Vecchio. 09-23-60."

He'd started shaking again, adrenaline long ago having left his body. Memories and pain attached themselves to shadows; the dark sheen of blood reflecting like oil under a failing streetlamp, and that sickening tangy metallic smell burning his nostrils mixed with rotting garbage from a dumpster nearby. He could still feel the cold that stabbed through his body—a combination of the frosty night air, the sweat clinging to his shirt after the foot pursuit, and the shock that filled his chest and head with ice cubes from the moment he caught sight of Fraser's red tunic in the alley.

Ray wasn't usually afraid to get dirty. He'd never noticed grit as something unpleasant before tonight. Actually he liked grit. Grit was working on his Goat. Getting the bad guys off the streets. Maybe this discomfort was Fraser's ruined, bloodied uniform; which, until now, rarely seemed to find a wrinkle, much less common urban grime; but the helplessness Ray had felt as Fraser moaned in pain next to him was accompanied by an awareness of and grinding into every bit of dirt and grit underneath Ray's body as he steadied himself. He had been aware of his fingertips, palms, even the scuff of his boots scraping roughly against the harsh texture in a sympathetic, reflexive duet with his friend's agony.

Under the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital room, Ray looked up, certain and afraid his eyes were flashing several shades darker than their usual gray-blue. Super. Just what he needed: to Hulk-out in front of someone else. He needed to see Fraser. Haunted, frightened, and disgusted, Ray felt his breathing increase and the blood drain from his face.

"Whoa, hang on there, Detective. You don't look so good. I'm just going to lay the head of the bed all the way down, okay?" Ray felt his head drop down steadily, unaware that he'd been upright at all. "You're looking pretty gray. Of course that could be the dirt. Otherwise I'd say white as a bar of soap. Do you think you could swallow some water?"

He thought he distantly heard someone call for some fluids. Wasn't water a fluid?

Ray tried to say something but everything around him grayed from the edges inward. He was slightly aware of his ears becoming cold and his stomach rolling. He swallowed, but there was nothing in his throat. Tried to say he didn't feel so great, but his whole head went completely cold and he blacked out until voices around him quickly began to disappear, and the last thing he heard was frantic yelling in the hallway about a stab wound victim... something about a Mountie. Fraser. Ray tried to hang onto that conversation, but he couldn't stop himself from passing out.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks so much for the lovely reviews and messages! They did encourage me to update much more quickly! This chapter is different, yet again. It was a little difficult for me, because I had to write Ray without much dialogue or movement, and he externalizes his emotions and voice so much with intricate gestures, movements, and speech patterns. I hope I didn't fail at just sitting here in his poor, traumatized head. And I also hope this was not a cliché hospital scene you just assumed was coming in the next chapter, because 1.) I don't like cliché hospital scenes and 2.) I want some realism, and trauma happens. So does ER procedure, unfortunately. I find it much easier to write from Fraser's POV, because his character allows me to use his wonderful grammar and love of language and quirky facts. But it's fun being in Ray's head too. I found it infinitely harder when it was limited to almost entirely in-his-head. Oh, and I promised action. It's coming! Let me know what you think. Thank you kindly!


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